


Just Like Animals

by Plenoptic



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M, Not furry I swear, Shameless M5 reference, Threesome - M/M/M, much explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niccolò Machiavelli has always been good with animals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like Animals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZerosGirl01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZerosGirl01/gifts).



> I just don't know anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or, 'The Boots Incident.'

Niccolò Machiavelli had always been good with animals.

He’d learned to ride when he was just six, graduating from his little pony to a magnificent mare the moment his legs were long enough to fit a proper saddle. He was the one who brought home strays and kept them beneath his bed; more than once his horrified mother had evicted possums and mange-bitten street cats from his room while he seethed at the loss. His father had given him a hound when he was sixteen, but even that hadn’t stopped him from sneaking in no less than four abandoned puppies under his coat when the rainy season came. As an assassin with the Brotherhood, he contented himself with raising a fiery filly and, of course, caring for the cooing pigeons that carried messages and secrets across Rome. 

At a young and healthy thirty, Niccolò hadn’t yet met the animal he couldn’t tame. 

Yet.

* * *

 

 

La Volpe had earned his moniker because it suited him. 

That wasn’t an accident. He liked foxes—always had. When he was a lad, growing up on the streets of Florence, of Venice, of Milan, of whatever city he stumbled into, he’d had a little fox kit that travelled with him, curling up in his hood at night and trotting after his heels by day. He’d loved the tiny creature, both for its companionship, and for the distraction it provided when he needed to find himself a few florins. That fox had taught him more than any man or woman who had attempted to raise him (and they had been few and far between). The fox taught him how to climb, how to run, how and when to draw attention and how to keep from being seen; how to disarm with a sweet face and attack with sharp, quick teeth. 

By the time Volpe swore his allegiance to the Brotherhood, he had yet to meet the animal that could best a fox.

Yet.

* * *

 

They called him il Lupo because he was a beast.

His life—whatever he had been  _before_ —was far away, a dream, a shadow. He was a hunter, a killer—a Templar honed by an assassin’s skills. Men like Micheletto were weapons, little more than walking blades. Il Lupo was an animal. A  _monster_ . He needed little direction and abided by few morals. He needed only to be put on the scent, and nothing and no one could escape him. He didn’t remember when the bloodlust had started, or why—something Fiora and Baltasar had done to him, perhaps, when the made him the man he was. It mattered little, if at all. Il Lupo lived a life perfectly suited to him, filled his assigned niche with ease and comfort. So he was an animal. Fine. That worked well for him—hell, better than well. It was  _ideal_ .

When Cesare set him on the Brotherhood, il Lupo had yet to meet anyone who could provoke him into feeling human—

_Yet._

* * *

 

The best way to tame any animal—in Niccolò’s considerable opinion—was to meet it on its home turf. Let it feel comfortable and safe in its environment. Let it come on its own terms.

That was the idea, anyway, when he traded fifty florins for the ramshackle hut a half league south of  _La Volpe Addormentata._  It was a little close to the thief’s territory for it to be truly neutral ground, but the fox’s ire at the wolf’s mere presence rather made up the difference. Niccolò spent six months fixing the place up, patching the walls and the leaky roof, building a decent fire place, putting together a bed that would comfortably accommodate any or all of the three bodies that might tumble upon it. And then he cleaned, cleaned like he’d never cleaned anything else before, sweeping and scrubbing and scraping away mold, brushing away cobwebs, dusting, applying fresh paint and laying down cheap carpet over the dirt floors. He built himself a bookshelf to hold some of his less rare titles; he installed nice sconces to hold torches and found tall candelabras to invite in a little light. He secured the place last, fitting the door and single window with heavy bolts and reinforcing the wood with sheets of worked steel. 

Comfortable, check. Safe, check. 

It wasn’t home—not right away. He built a ramshackle table (the whole venture improved his previously non-existent carpentry skills immensely) and began to leave food. The fox preferred fruit and bread and fresh milk; the wolf ate the salt-preserved meat almost exclusively. These things Niccolò noted with a smile. He knew he was getting close when he found a coin purse stashed beneath a pillow; closer still when he found the coin purse cut open and the money cleared out the week after. They were feeling one another out, establishing territory. Unnerving, almost, how close they were to nature. 

Once he was sure they were settled—and they’d done just about everything but pissed in the corners—he began to stay the night in the hut. Just one night, at first—he left his horse tied outside so they would know he was there. He extended his stay to two nights the week after. The week after that, on the third night, he finally caught one of his wily companions.

* * *

 

Volpe kissed him while he slept. It was a cautious thing, slow and searching, and Niccolò didn’t rouse at once. He didn’t stir until Volpe bit at his lower lip. He made no sudden moves, didn’t open his eyes—he parted his lips and let Volpe kiss him more firmly. Volpe was good with his tongue—it was never an invasion, never rough, just a soft, caressing thing along his own tongue, his teeth, his lips. Niccolò was grateful for it—he’d had more than enough of lovers trying to fish out his tonsils. Volpe was too bright and too experienced for such clumsy affection.

They broke apart, albeit reluctantly; were it not for the necessity of breathing, Niccolò would happily have spent the rest of his life with Volpe’s mouth on his. He saw the hesitation on the thief’s face, the fear—that kiss hadn’t been meant to wake him. He tangled a hand in the older man’s hair and brought him close again, kissing him with raw want, a pantomime of the touch he really craved. Volpe must have tasted it—or just picked up the scent. Hands grasped Niccolò’s wrists and pinned him to the mattress, the roughness a stark contrast to the utterly gentle stroking of Volpe’s tongue along his lover’s lower lip. 

But foxes were hungry, always hungry. Volpe broke their kiss and nosed Niccolò’s jaw to the side, exhaling hotly against the side of his neck before biting in, nipping and suckling until the younger man bruised. Niccolò tipped his head back with a quiet groan, eyes fluttering closed as Volpe marked him, marked his claim on this contested territory. Volpe didn’t let up, sucking a trail of angry bruises down to his lover’s collarbone. His hands fisted in Niccolò’s tunic and pulled, wrenching the ties apart and exposing flesh that warmed under his touch. His hand drifted lower, seeking, and he paused.

“Why are you already undressed?” Fingers probed his hole, and Niccolò shivered. “Has he already been here?”

“No.” Niccolò smiled a little, lifting a hand to stroke Volpe’s hair, but the thief was quick to pin him again. “It was just hot, Gilberto.”

The thief scowled at the use of his name, and Niccolò wisely fell quiet. Volpe—surly now, untrusting—lowered his mouth once more, kissing a wet path across Niccolò’s chest until he found a pert nipple. The swipe of his tongue was delicious, a lewd promise, and Niccolò arched into it, aware for the first time of the clothed erection pressed into his belly and his own aching need. 

And then Volpe’s mouth closed down, locked around sensitive skin in a rough bite, and Niccolò snarled at him, fighting—but only just—the hands keeping his wrists pinned by his head. Volpe drew off of him with a wet  _pop_ , licking his lips and admiring his handiwork. Niccolò glared at him but kept his mouth shut—sometimes trading words with Volpe was tantamount to poking an angry animal with a stick. 

“So pretty,” Volpe purred, and soothed his new mark with a soft press of his lips, glancing up at his young lover through downcast lashes before moving down Niccolò’s stomach. The younger man flinched at each bite, closing his eyes, counting the marks as they traveled ever southward. He hit thirteen when Volpe finally released his wrists and manhandled his legs open, stretching out languidly across their bed.

“Beg me for it.”

Niccolò swallowed but didn’t reply. Volpe grumbled, guiding one of Niccolò’s legs over his shoulder and pushing on his other thigh, giving himself room. He was close—Niccolò could feel the heat of his quick breath on his swollen sex, but Volpe wasn’t about to oblige him. The thief growled, lifting his head and pulling his lips back to set his teeth almost delicately against the base of Niccolò’s blood-hot cock. 

“Beg me for it, Niccolò.”

“Make me come this time.”

“That’s not begging.”

Niccolò closed his eyes. Once, he’d tried to befriend a particularly vicious dog by offering it treats every time it so much as looked his way, hoping to placate it, but the beast’s demeanor didn’t improve until he quit indulging it. Volpe was seven thousand times the challenge, but Niccolò hoped against hope that the same principle might apply. 

Volpe bit him—a sharp nip right between his cock and his balls, and Niccolò tried to lunge up. The thief caught him and wrestled him back down, and they struggled until Volpe cupped the younger man’s balls in his hand and squeezed. 

“Lie back,” he breathed, his violet eyes turned dark by lust, glittering in the candlelight. Slowly—precariously—Niccolò did as he was told, lower lip caught between his teeth. Volpe’s grip relaxed ever so slightly. “Your hands.”

“Oh, for—”

But Volpe’s fingers tightened again, and Niccolò hastily put his hands above his head, gripping the mattress. Satisfied, the thief released his stranglehold, smirking when the younger man released a breath of relief. 

“Good boy.” Volpe sank back down, eyes watching his younger lover warily, even as he settled back into place between Niccolò’s thighs. Their gazes stayed locked until the thief leaned down. His mouth nuzzled behind the young man’s balls, a soft groan leaving him before his tongue darted out to taste. 

Niccolò answered with a groan of his own—half in exasperation and half in pleasure, because Volpe was sucking him again, leaving marks where only another lover would find them. The thief’s tongue was a wicked thing, leaving Niccolò wet everywhere except the place where it mattered most. He was almost ashamed of his little hot spot, discovered when Volpe had been dragging the tip of his cock between his lover’s legs, lazily leaving streaks of pre-come between his balls and his hole before drawling, “This is where I’d be fucking you if you were a girl.” 

The wolf was nicer about it. He was the one who had once drawn Niccolò in close and slipped a hand down the back of the younger man’s hose, rubbing and stroking his perineum until Niccolò had actually come, clutching his larger lover while he climaxed upright in the man’s arms. Volpe was the one who teased. 

Another bite, this time on the inside of his thigh, and Niccolò flinched, scowling down at the thief.

“What?”

“Where did you go?”

His poor decision was already dancing on his tongue, but Niccolò was irritated. Pent up, aching for release, tired of being bitten,  _irritated_ . “I was thinking about il Lupo.”

Volpe lifted his head and blinked. Something steeled in his gaze, and without warning he dove forward, grasping Niccolò’s cock in one hand and taking half the length into his mouth. Niccolò sat bolt upright, a startled cry escaping him when Volpe sank down and swallowed, nails raking angry red lines into his lover’s thighs. 

“What—ungh—Volpe—”

The thief bobbed his head, and Niccolò broke off with a moan, fisting a hand in the older man’s hair and guiding him down. His tip hit the back of Volpe’s throat, but to his credit, the thief didn’t even cough; a low sound left him, a hum that vibrated along Niccolò’s length. He reluctantly released his lover’s curls—he didn’t really deserve that rough treatment—and braced his hands behind him, tipping his head back and lifting his hips to match Volpe’s pace. It was good—sudden, but good, all wet and hot. Volpe’s talented mouth wasn’t just superior when kissing; in this, he had learned to be deep and quiet, where il Lupo was clumsy and loud, so loud it was almost obscene. Niccolò couldn’t really say which he preferred, but there was certainly something to be said for watching that mouth slide expertly up and down his length, calm and practiced. 

He slid a hand back into Volpe’s hair but kept his grip loose, watching the thief suck him off like it was the second coming of Christ—hell, he’d take this over the second coming of Christ any day of the year. (And wouldn’t  _that_  have his dear mother rolling in her grave.) 

Against his better judgement—and tonight his judgement was notoriously poor—when he felt heat coil around the base of his cock, he smoothed the thief’s hair beneath his fingers, licked his lips, and spoke. “I’m close…”

For a moment—for one breathless, exultant moment—he thought he had the fox tamed at last. Volpe sank down until his scruffy chin tickled Niccolò’s balls, his nose pressed into the dark patch of hair at the base of his pelvis, and he sucked so fiercely that Niccolò’s hands fisted in his hair—

And then, as quickly as he’d begun, the thief pulled off, coughing and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, smirking when a few sad drops of come leaked from Niccolò’s tip and dribbled down between his legs. Niccolò jerked with the shock of the loss, grasping the base of his cock almost on instinct and looking in bewilderment between his unfulfilled erection and his grinning lover.

“You are fucking  _kidding me.”_

“That’s what you get.”

“For  _what?_ ”

“Thinking of that mangy dog instead of me.”

Niccolò stared at him, mouth open in stunned, affronted horror. Volpe leaned in and licked him from chin to the tip of his nose before getting to his feet. 

“So long.” The thief licked his lips and quirked a grin. “ _Master.”_  He was stepping into his boots when Niccolò spoke up, his voice hoarse and strained.

“Volpe. Wait.”

The thief paused and turned, one hand on the bolted door. Niccolò climbed to his feet and hobbled across the room, one hand still cradling his uncomfortably swollen cock. He wound a hand into the thief’s hair and pulled him down, kissing him tongue-first and swallowing Volpe’s grunt of surprise. Volpe closed his eyes, pressing a hand to the younger man’s lower back, chasing Niccolò’s tongue into his mouth and groaning at the wet heat—

Niccolò leaned into him and tugged on his cock—three quick pulls—and grunted as he came, ejaculating all over Volpe’s favorite boots. Satisfied at last, he nipped the stunned thief’s lower lip and took a step back, sighing as he palmed his aching cock and smiled down at his work.

“Hm. I almost prefer that to coming on your face.” Grinning, he patted the older man’s cheek and turned away, heading back toward the bed. He wasn’t in the least bit surprised when Volpe hit him from behind, tackling him onto the mattress and pinning him down, one hand pressing his face into the nearest pillow while the other landed against his ass with a ringing  _slap_ . Niccolò suppressed a laugh, shivering when the thief leaned down to bite at the shell of his ear.

“You’re going to regret that. Very, _very_ much.”

Another poor choice coming on, but oh well—it just wasn’t his night. Niccolò rocked his ass back into the thief’s straining erection, still trapped in his hose, and purred back at him, “Make me.”

It did occur to him—several times, actually, during the following two hours he spent with Volpe’s cock in his ass—that there might be no taming a fox. 

  
  



End file.
